The Final Voyage
by Chris7221
Summary: Shepard was right. The Reapers have arrived and invaded Earth. The Systems Alliance has called up every reserve, including Captain Dennis Lacroix's museum piece of a ship. But how much can his hopelessly outdated ship and its odd mix of a crew really do? Somewhat crack.
1. Chapter 1

"Earth has fallen. Everyone's in the fight, and a lot are down to sticks and stones. You may think we're screwed, but we're lucky. We have a lot more than they do. We have a battleship."

An extreme crack fic that just wouldn't leave my head. Your mileage may vary.

* * *

 **1:** **Are you crazy? That's a museum!**

Lieutenant Emily Parsons sighed as she looked over herself in the mirror.

A Systems Alliance Navy officer currently attached to the United North American States' Reserve Fleet, she loved the old battleship more than she loved her own mother (she admitted that in her case, it wasn't hard to do). On the other hand, dealing with tourists was always a mixed experience that she regarded with some trepidation. She came here for the huge sixteen-inch guns, not the weirdos.

Admittedly, the huge guns were much smaller than the mass driver on the SSV Geneva, but there was a certain appeal to the old cannons. She'd fired both, but the Missouri actually had a real trigger that she could pull. It was so much more _satisfying_.

At least she didn't have to wear a period-correct uniform. She'd volunteered at the Clinton Carrier Centre in Norfolk before joining the military, and realized how bad military uniforms used to be. Since the Missouri had served over a two hundred year period and in fact was still (sort of) in service, she simply wore the usual Alliance armour. It seemed odd at first to wear battle armour rather than a normal working uniform, but after about a week she realized how _dangerous_ a ship built two hundred years before modern safety standards really was.

"Looks like a good-sized crowd today," a bearded man in a not-quite-military uniform told her. His nametag and insignia identified him as Jim Miles of the UNAS Heritage Fleet. Jim was the tour coordinator, more or less in charge of the tourism aspect of the old ship. "A bunch of tourists, some marines from KB, and a high school history class."

"Any aliens?" she asked absentmindedly.

A note of humour was in his response. "One very unimpressed looking turian, a couple curious quarians on their pilgrimage, and a bored asari."

"Huh." She peeked at the security feed to her left and raised an eyebrow at her superior's initial comment. "Good-sized?"

"Okay, maybe fifty to a hundred," he admitted.

"That's it?" Disappointment was evident in Emily's voice. "Last time we did the full show we got four times that."

His reply was half-joking, half-sad. "Maybe people just aren't interested."

"We're taking a piece of history out into the open ocean, doing a flank-speed run, and firing a full broadside and people _aren't interested_?"

"It's October, Emily. It's not tourist season. Everyone's busy, and with all the doomsday talk they want to play tourist even less."

"Still." Receiving no reply, she turned and headed for the door. "Showtime."

Emily pushed the large hatch open, shutting it before skirting around the huge three-gun turret to the aft deck. Sure enough, sixty or so visitors were standing on the aft deck. Most of them were human, some civilians and a few military. There were several families with children and a handful of high school students. And sure enough, there was an unimpressed turian, two quarians gawking at the 16"/50 Mark 7 guns, and an asari that looked more confused than bored.

"Hello and welcome aboard the USS Missouri," she greeted cheerfully, with a half-forced smile. "I'm Lieutenant Emily Parsons, and I'll be your tour guide today."

"Hmph."

"Are you an Alliance officer, Lieutenant?" one of the marines asked. She hadn't been expecting to see an Alliance officer aboard the centuries-old ship.

Emily nodded. "I am. The USS Missouri is crewed by a mix of Alliance military personnel, UNAS JDC military personnel, and civilians with the UNAS Heritage Fleet."

"Ah."

"The Missouri is among the oldest seaworthy ships on Earth," Emily continued after a pause. "She was built-"

"What's the oldest?" a fat kid blurted out.

She held back her irritation, keeping the smile on her face. "The oldest ship that can still steam- and yes, these ships _steam_ \- under her own power is actually Missouri's older sister, the USS Iowa." There were no interruptions, so she asked, "Does anyone know when the Missouri was built?"

Surprisingly, the answer came from one of the quarians. She replied matter-of-factly, "The USS Missouri was built during your Second World War; laid down in 1941 and launched in 1944."

"Correct," she acknowledged after a pause. "The UNAS Joint Defence Command still keeps the battleships in active reserve as a point of national pride. The Missouri was retired shortly after the Second World War, reactivated and modernized in the 1980s and put into mothballs in the early 1990s before being retired for good shortly after the turn of the millenium."

"I thought you said it's still in active reserve?" the turian growled.

Emily groaned inwardly at her own poor choice of words. "That's correct. The Missouri was brought out of retirement again during the rising tensions of the 2020s and upgraded again. She stayed in the fleet for another ten years. After that, she was put into reserve, although this was largely on paper and her condition deteriorated.

"When the United North American States joined at the turn of the next century, the battleships were restored and brought back into ceremonial service. After the formation of the Systems Alliance, the battleships remained part of the UNAS Navy but became operated jointly with the Alliance military. Apart from a brief active stint during the tense days of the First Contact War, they've been in that state ever since."

"Guess they just can't retire the old girl," one of the students said with a smile.

"They're not seriously still using this old hunk of junk, are they?" the student right beside her snorted.

Emily bit back a retort. "Although the Missouri is in active service and still in completely serviceable condition, she _is_ hopelessly outdated as a warship, an inelegant weapon for a less civilized age. Her role is purely ceremonial, and even though her guns are still fired for demonstrations, she will never again fire a shot in anger."

"Daddy, why would a ship be mad?" one of the kids asked.

"Well, in anger means against an enemy," Emily explained. "If the ship was at war, she would be firing her shots in anger-"

She was cut off by a piercing siren, followed by a panicky announcement over the ship's PA system. "This is not a drill. General quarters, general quarters, all hands man battle stations. Secure all compartments and noncritical equipment. General quarters, general quarters, all hands to battle stations! This is not a drill!"

Emily's eyes widened. A real call to battle stations, in 2186? Why would an ancient battleship be called into battle. They weren't trained for it, weren't equipped for it, didn't even have procedures for it! It wouldn't happen unless the world was ending... was the world ending? Were the Reapers here?

Points of light falling through the sky, followed by muffled explosions in the distance, galvanized her into action. The world _was_ ending. She ran past the turret and threw the hatch open. "Everyone inside, now!"

* * *

It's not a crossover with Battleship, though I'll freely admit it was inspired by the movie. Except this is more like if it was Frigate, featuring the USS Constitution versus aliens that could tank nukes. I am writing it as a semi-serious fic, but it _is_ a crack fic and if you're not willing to suspend disbelief to see an Iowa taking on Reapers then there's probably very little for you in this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

I was watching The Last Ship the other day and that inspired me to pick this up again. We'll see how far it goes this time?

* * *

 **The Final Voyage  
2** **:** **Are we at war?**

Like the rest of the ship, the bridge of the Missouri was a dizzying mix of modern, outdated, and truly archaic technology. Supposedly, it had been rebuilt from the ground up in the 2020s, yet some 1940s vintage technology remained. Clunky mechanical controls sat beside modern holographic ones. The crew manning their stations, too, were an eclectic mix of UNAS Joint Defence Command personnel, Alliance servicepersons, and civilian volunteers.

Captain Dennis Lacroix, UNAS JDC, was out of his element. This was his last assignment, a largely ceremonial one to cap off a successful but not distinguished career. Before taking command of the Missouri, he had served on cutters, keeping the waves safe. Warship combat was foreign to him. The smart thing to do, he reasoned, was to evacuate the ship, find a shelter and wait it out. But a small voice in the back of his head told him to do something else entirely.

"Separate all lines, cut the anchor. Thrusters ahead full." The helmsman, a veteran of the First Contact War, carried out the order without question. Small electric thruster units, literally bolted onto the hull, came to life, trying to push the huge grey battleship slowly through the water. The ship shuddered, but refused to move.

"Sir, shore control not responding. Docking arms will not retract," an Ensign told the captain.

"Jettison them!" he ordered.

"Sir, what are-"

"Ensign, we need to get underway. Get those arms disengaged one way or another!"

"Yes, sir." That galvanized her into action. She picked up a century-old sound-powered phone. "Control, bridge. Blow the docking arms... I know, just do it!"

Muffled booms could be heard from the bridge, but the sixty thousand ton battleship didn't shudder in the slightest when explosive bolts severed the docking arms connecting it to shore. The lights flickered as ship service power was switched from the now disconnected shore mains to turbogenerators and auxiliary diesels. The old ship lurched as she began making headway.

Captain Lacroix grabbed a large phone from its receptacle on the wall. His omni-tool would have been just as functional, but they used the old phones for show and it had become a force of habit. "Main control, bridge. Tel, I need speed! How are my engines?"

"Four boilers operational, captain," an accented voice replied. "One more that we just lit off raising steam and one more almost online. I can give you full speed on two shafts and half speed on one more in one minute."

"Make it so. Everything we've got." The engineer worked quickly, opening valves that admitted steam to the battleship's massive turbines. The machinery may have been hopelessly outdated and horrifically inefficient, but it was well maintained and produced just as much power as it did when it was built. Grey smoke poured from the Missouri's stacks and the ship lurched noticeably as two of its four huge brass propellers spun up to speed.

"Are we at battle stations?" the first officer asked, bolting onto the bridge.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander, we are. As of thirty seconds ago, this ship is at war." He had no idea if that was strictly true, but didn't care. "Get down to the secondary conn."

"Sir, you can't be serious!" he argued. "The emergency channels are saying this is it. We should evacuate-"

"I know what this is. We're not evacuating," the Captain said firmly. "You have your orders, del Rio."

"Understood, sir." The XO replied reluctantly before leaving the bridge.

"Captain, we're going to hit the Arizona memorial!" the helmsman warned.

"Oh, _shit_." There was a sickening crunch as the massive battleship, now making several knots, smashed the lightly built structure into a crumpled mess.

"Are we at war, sir?" the Ensign asked nervously.

Captain Lacroix stepped toward the front of the bridge, surveying Pearl Harbor through the thick aluminosilicate windows. The sky was darkening with dark shapes, and a few explosions were visible in the sky. Shepard was right after all, the crazy bitch. "I'm afraid so."

* * *

"Jim, watch our guests," Emily said to a shell-shocked volunteer. "I need to get to the plotting room."

"What's happening, Lieutenant?" the turian asked.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out!" she shouted back before jumping through a hatch and descending down a steep staircase, nearly knocking over a confused bosun on her way down. She crossed over from the port side of the ship to the starboard side before dashing down the narrow corridor toward her destination.

"Move, move, move!" Emily swerved around a trio of maintenance crew, smacking her shoulder loudly against a protruding valve. She turned another corner and stepped through another worn hatch into the plotting room.

The plotting room, like the rest of the ship, was a truly schizophrenic mix of technology. It was dominated by the ancient Mark 8 Rangekeeper, which was surrounded by more modern technology. One bulkhead was covered with synchros. Directly across from it was one covered in holographic control stations. A 1980s vintage radar console sat beside one from the 2020s. Only about half the equipment was actually manned.

"What the hell is going on?" Emily shouted.

"We're under attack," a technician told her, voice wavering. "Could be... could be the Reapers."

"Holy shit." Emily could scarcely believe it. The battleship hadn't been truly fought in over two hundred years. It hadn't seen a real general quarters call in the past century. She began barking orders. "Bring SPY and Cyclops online. Spool up the Mark 76, fire control on manual. SDS to automatic. Give me a status on weapons system on this ship. And someone figure out where the hell the rest of the fire control party is!"

* * *

The harbour was not particularly crowded, but it was quickly becoming chaos as every boat either tried to make it back to land or out of the danger zone. The first hostile forces were beginning to descend on the city, and a dozen small flying objects began ripping through a cruise ship sitting on the other side of the harbour. A pair of sleek trimarans with Coast Guard markings pulled up beside the battleship.

"Battleship Missouri, this is the Coast Guard cutter Oahu," a nervous voice buzzed over the radio. "We have hostiles inbound from orbit. They say they're the Reapers. Recommend you evacuate to shelters immediately."

"Negative, Oahu," Captain Lacroix replied. "It's too late for that now. We have civilians aboard and intend to find shelter at sea."

"Okay, Missouri, we'll try to escort you out," the cutter replied. "Be advised we have... things- I don't know how to describe them- inbound. We have GARDIAN lasers, that's it. Will try to, uh, intercept."

"Copy, Oahu. Just do the best you can."

"Will do."

"What are we dealing with?" the Captain asked, mostly to himself. He picked up a pair of binoculars and trained them out the window. After zooming in, he could recognize what they were going up against. Oculus. Small orb-like drones with nasty lasers, no doubt only the first wave. He could see a more organic-looking Reaper descending in the distance, but guessed it was on the other side of the island and hopefully not within range.

"They're heading right for us!" the Ensign shouted as they began turning toward the battleship and her escorts.

In a way, the Missouri's age had worked for it. The unintelligent Reaper drones confused the ancient warship with a particularly noisy floating hulk, a less attractive target even than a cruise ship or fishing trawler. The patrol vessels opened fire with their GARDIAN lasers and the Oculi responded in kind. Red beams cut through the atmosphere and burned through thin metal. The patrol vessels were designed to combat smugglers, and they were no match for the nimble swarm of Oculi.

Their escorts were still floating and firing back, but that wouldn't last. The Captain picked up the intercom. "Plotting, bridge. Do we have weapons?"

"Five-inch mounts one, two, and four ready to fire," Lieutenant Parsons replied. "Point-defence systems on standby."

"Open fire! Everything you've got!"

On Captain Lacroix's order, the secondary battery opened up, rippling off five-inch proximity shells in a distinctive bang-clink-bang-clink rhythm. Some of them almost found their marks, exploding next to the alien machines but doing little more than knocking them about.

The five-inch guns were not the Missouri's only anti-air armament. Small remote weapons stations mounted with machine guns filled the air with hypersonic chips of metal. Missiles exploded from SeaRAM and Impactor SAM launchers, veering wildly off course as soon as the Oculi brought their ECM online. The four Sea GARDIAN mounts, state of the art in 2100, were more successful. One of them was able to lock on and turn its target into slag. Finally, two-century-old Phalanx CIWS mounts roared to life, contributing more noise than effect. One walked its fire behind an Oculus before locking onto a burning harbor crane and spraying it uselessly with 20mm rounds. The other spun up, sputtered, ejected six casings' worth of mangled brass, and seized.

A deafening clang reverberated through the ship as one of the drones slammed into the solid armour of the battleship, trying to punch through it like the comparatively lighter alloys of a frigate. It was quickly destroyed by a tungsten slug fired from the remaining cutter. Seconds later, another Oculus cut the ship in half, its eezo core detonating and spraying the battleship with fragments. It swung around and headed for the battleship, only for a lucky five-inch shell to swat it out of the air.

Dropships were beginning to land, with the Reaper abominations taking to the streets. In the harbor, the cruise ship exploded and sank. Wreckage from dozens of ships mixed with thousands of corpses. A few desperate survivors struggled to shore, only to be cut down on land. The battle had only begun, but the Missouri was fast leaving it. Now making seventeen knots, the battleship quickly left its home behind.


End file.
